The Misadventures of Team BACE
by Prime Metallix
Summary: Villains in your hometown? Rogue politicians a nuisance? Just want someone dead? Call the BACE Mercenaries, Westopolis' best and only bounty hunting service! You'll want our business, because you really don't have any other choice! .


_Taking a stab at writing for humor. Bear with me, this fic includes fan characters. OMGBBQ_

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**Chapter I:**

**Free Time**

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I swear, if there were ever a time where I wanted to shoot myself, it would be right now.  
Unfortunately, doing so would probably leave these two worse off than when I found them.

"I'm telling you, Omikron, I was not hitting on her!"

"RESPONSE: Subject showed a noticeable increase in pheromone levels and heart rate when..."

"Wha--? That doesn't mean anything!"

Ugh. This is just torture.

The two in question were, as fate would have it, my teammates; E-115 "Omikron" and Dart the Chameleon.  
Omikron isn't as bad as you'd think. As much as I'm uncomfortable with machines in general, he's a great guy to have on the team. He's gotten us out of plenty of ugly situations, thanks to his... persuasive methods. Usually, these involve the sonic pulse cannon attached to his arm.

And then... there's Dart. I know for a fact that's not his real name, but he refuses to say otherwise.  
Dart is the bane of my existence. Don't get me wrong, he's a valuable member. I honestly can't imagine where the BACE Mercenaries would be without his unparalleled stealth skills.  
It's just... well, he's an idiot.

"There is nothing you can say to prove that I ever said anything that would..."

"VOCAL RECORDING, 11:23 AM: 'Wow. Am I dead? I'm seeing an angel."

Dart's face flushed red. "I-I-Ineversaidthat!"

"You know, if you two would do your jobs as well as you nit-pick each other, maybe we wouldn't be living in this dump."

The chameleon sat up and shot me an angry glare. "Last I checked, it was none of your business, Tarmac!"

Now, I know he did not just say that to me. If he had, I would have kicked him so hard that his great-grandparents would feel it in their graves.  
Dart's eyes suddenly went wide, realizing what he had just said.

I sighed. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

The chameleon looked at Omikron, back at me, then up at the ceiling. He shrugged and leaned back in his chair.  
I turned my attention back to the television. The news reports were on, as much as Dart wanted to watch _his _programs.

"Turn it up a bit," I said to Omikron.

The reporter was a dark-skinned human, her black hair tied back into a ponytail. She was standing in front of the local Westopolis GUN outpost, which was taped off and surrounded by GUN troops, defense drones, and numerous media vehicles.

"... not answering any questions right now, but we have confirmation that multiple gunshots were heard from inside the facility."

The screen split into two images; one with the reporter on the right, and the gray-haired news anchor on the left.  
The anchor looked around nervously, as if unaware that the camera was on him. There was a moment of silence on both ends before he finally spoke in a raspy, deep voice.

"Rachelle, have there been any attempts to enter the building?" he asked.

Another silent moment. Apparently, the news station was somewhere outside the city; either that, or they were having technical difficulties somewhere.

In case I hadn't mentioned before, our "agency" is actually just a small apartment in the Westopolis residential district. It would be barely big enough for the three of us under normal circumstances, but since one of us is content to just sleeping on the couch and the other one not needing any sort of bed at all...

Rachelle finally nodded.  
"As far as we can tell, no officers have attempted to enter..." She looked off to the left, as if someone was saying something to her.  
"Alright, I've just been informed that two of GUN's 'special agents' have just been sent in. We'll be getting a report from them soon."

I looked over at Omikron, who was still fixated on the television.

Dart looked up, curious. "'Special agents'?"

"ANALYSIS: This appears to have been an assassination attempt. A rather ineptly-planned attempt, if the assassin is still in the building."

I leaned back in my chair. "Probably one of those solo rookies. There's a dozen of 'em popping up all over the place."

"DISAGREEMENT: The odds of a novice assassin successfully penetrating a GUN stronghold, predominantly one as fortified as the Westopolis Command Center, are eight-hundred and seventy-five to one."

Dart chuckled under his breath. "Omikron, how many times have I told you that 'the odds' don't mean a thing in our line of work?"

"RESPONSE: Including this instance, two."

"Really? I thought it was more than that," he chuckled again.

I don't think I will ever really understand Dart's sense of humor.

_RIIIINNGRIIIINNGRIIIINNG_

Finally, something I wanted to hear. Whenever we get a call, there's almost always a job waiting for us on the other line.

That, or just telemarketing. You can never tell, when you're always being called anonymously.

Dart jumped up from his seat, flew across the room, quite nearly knocking both Omikron and an innocent bystander (i e, a lamp) on the floor, and had the phone in his hand in one swift movement.

"BACE Mercenaries, 'Always on duty for you!'," he recited into the phone. "... Yeah... Well, yeah. We're freelance... The boss? Yeah, he's here. Just a sec." He turned to me; I was already coming across the room. Handing me the phone, he snickered, "Guy wants to talk to you. Can't imagine why."

I snatched the phone from him.

"Hello?"

A low, synthesized voice answered. "Is this Tarmac the Hawk?"

"Yes...? Wait, how did you know...?" We had always kept our names anonymous to our clients; how this guy had managed to find out mine was beyond me.

"I find myself requiring your services," the voice replied. "If you have been watching the news recently, there have been several assassination attempts on high-ranking officials, and I fear that I may be the next target."

"... I... I'm sorry, sir," I said, still trying to figure out where this guy had gotten our names. "We're a mercenary service. We're not bodyguards..."

"I understand that. It's not protection I am asking for."

"Then... what?"

"I believe I know who is behind these attacks. I want him taken care of as soon as possible."

Alright, now we were getting somewhere. True, I was still skeptical of this client; he was obviously trying to keep his identity a secret. Not to mention that he somehow knew our names, or at least mine.

Still, we needed this. We hadn't had a job in several weeks, and money was getting tight. On a good day, we barely had enough to pay rent.

"Who's the target?"

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_Boom. **R&R, please.**_


End file.
